


Lines They Don't Understand

by Sangerin



Category: Medical Defence Australia (MDA), The West Wing
Genre: Australia, Crossover, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-03
Updated: 2005-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sangerin/pseuds/Sangerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was never sure, thinking about it later through the mists of half-memory, half-fantasy, how the conversation had begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lines They Don't Understand

**Author's Note:**

> This bounced off my drabble, “Giddy”, which was my response to a cross-over challenge on tww100. It wasn’t much good as a drabble. I’m hoping it’s better as a full length story. Title from “Original Sin” by Elton John and Bernie Taupin. And I borrowed a line from “[This is She: Six Act Interlude](http://gatefiction.com/wingswing/stylus.htm)” by The Stylus.

The memory was red. The burnished colour of Abbey’s hair. The deep, soft red of the upholstery in the hotel bar. The purplish red of the wine that swirled in Ella’s glass and stained her lips and teeth.

Ella knew the colour of the wine and the flaws in the glassware. She found herself studying the wine intently on many occasions that evening. It was her way of taking a little space: giving herself some distance from the reality of sharing a bottle of wine with the First Lady of the United States.

She was never sure, thinking about it later through the mists of half-memory, half-fantasy, how the conversation had begun. Ella didn’t tend to frequent hotel bars during conferences – she left that to the men. But that evening, she had gone to the bar and bought a glass of wine. A drink before bedtime, perhaps to calm her nerves, unsettled for reasons she didn’t entirely understand. She knew, though, that the reasons had something to do with Dr Abigail Bartlet. Who sat down opposite her, two secret service operatives sitting down at another table.

The first lady introduced herself as just another doctor. She ordered a bottle of wine and she and Ella spoke of inconsequential things. Small-talk about medical insurance and licensing boards and Dr Bartlet’s keynote presentation on cardio-thoracic surgery. Her trip to Australia to study Medicare.

They didn’t mention Dr Bartlet’s youngest daughter, whom the whole world knew was recovering in New Hampshire. Australians had learned where New Hampshire was last June. They didn’t mention Dr Bartlet’s own experiences with licensing boards and medical negligence claims, or her husband’s illness.

They drank wine and spoke as doctors, and as time wore on, they spoke as women, became ‘Abbey’ and ‘Ella’. They shared griefs and frustrations, of which each had many. They spoke of desires and longings, and Ella reached out for Abbey’s hand. Abbey started at Ella’s light brush against her hand, and then turned her hand in Ella’s and closed her fingers gently.

Ella realised then just how starved for touch Abbey was. She lifted Abbey’s hand in her own, and kissed the palm lightly.

Abbey’s eyes never left hers.

Ella kissed the radial pulse on Abbey’s wrist.

Abbey’s voice was low when she spoke. ‘Don’t start something you can’t finish.’

Ella smiled gently. ‘I can’t finish it here.’ She glanced in the direction of the Secret Service agents.

‘Don’t worry about them,’ said Abbey.

Ella didn’t ask. Not then.

They walked together to Abbey’s suite. In the elevator, Abbey reached for Ella’s hand, and Ella decided that if Abbey didn’t care, neither did she. If Abbey believed that this was happening, then so would she. Or at least, she would try.

Inside the suite, among the red and gold trimmings, Ella kissed Abbey’s palm again, and then pulled her close and kissed her lips.

Ella had recognised that Abbey was starved for touch because she knew she was herself. Since Tony’s death, she’d held herself aloof from the whole world, for reasons she’d never entirely understood. Something had almost happened between herself and Happy; something she didn’t want to happen. It was easier to pull away, better for everybody.

None of that mattered now, with Abbey’s hands gliding up over her ribs; the first kisses her skin had felt in years. Abbey’s lips moved along Ella’s  
jaw and down to the hollow of her collar-bone, and Ella’s breath caught in her throat.

She luxuriated in Abbey’s touch, in the heat created between them, in the fleeting ability to forget about the world outside. Even – perhaps especially – who they were and why they were there.

The world shrank to the size of the room, to the dimensions of the bed. There was nothing beyond sensation but need. The need to be touched, held, kissed and loved. Within that space of hands and fingers and tongues and sheets and pillows there was love of a sort. Acceptance and companionship of a sort – a most primal sort.

When Ella realised how primal and desperate it all was, she clung tighter to Abbey, kissed her harder and longer. Abbey responded, and the world disappeared into the red and gold shimmer of Ella’s memory.

The mirage that nothing mattered lasted long enough, through night and sleep and another bottle of wine shared in the hour before dawn. The bottle was brought into the room by one of the agents, who didn’t bat an eyelid at the sight of the rumpled bedclothes and Ella wearing a kimono that belonged to Abbey.

‘Do they…’ Ella couldn’t finish the sentence, didn’t know what question it was she wanted to ask.

Abbey smiled gently. ‘They’re well trained. And they know me. Which isn’t to say…’ Abbey hesitated. ‘I don’t do this often, you know.’

‘Is there someone in Washington?’ Ella asked.

‘It isn’t that there’s someone. More that there’s something. It sounds terribly sordid when I say it like that. But there can never be someone. Not in national politics. Not for the First Lady.’

There was silence. Then Abbey added softly, ‘And I do love Jed. I could rip him to pieces right now; feed him to the lions at any Zoo you care to name. But I do love him.’

Ella nodded and studied the wine as it settled back into her glass. Tailings, she thought they were called: the time it takes for the wine to flow back to  
its place.

Abbey kissed Ella again before she left the suite. She had talks scheduled with the AMA President, with Medicare bureaucrats and other doctors attending the conference, and a traumatised daughter waiting at home. The kiss was deep and tender, and they held each other close.

Ella was left alone in the suite once Abbey and her entourage had gone. In her lap she held the kimono – a gift from Abbey.It was red and black, satin that slid over the skin. It held Abbey’s scent.

Among the swirl of red-tinted memories, then scent was solid. It could take Ella back to that odd, surreal night. She was never quite sure whether she wanted to go there.


End file.
